Slow Dancing In A Burning Room
by Beth Pryor
Summary: Christie Dunbar examines her life, how she got there and where she goes from here.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Slow Dancing In A Burning Room

**Author: **Beth Pryor

**Rating: **M

**Summary: **Christie Dunbar examines her life and tries to decide where she goes from here.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything, and I'm not receiving any sort of compensation for this activity.

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**Slow Dancing In A Burning Room**

"What are you doing?" Detective Jim Dunbar asked his wife as he watched her throw clothes into a suitcase in the bedroom of their plush apartment.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" she shot back at him.

"Don't do this." He wasn't asking or commanding, he just said it.

"You don't get to tell me what to do." She didn't turn to look at him but continued throwing her things into bags that she had piled on the bed.

"Christie," he began but stopped. "Never mind." He turned his back and walked out the bedroom door. He collected his briefcase, gun and badge from the counter. Without another word he slammed the door behind him and was gone.

Christine Sullivan-Dunbar had long resigned herself to the fact that her husband was not perfect, but the first time she saw him in his uniform in the city on the 4th of July, she was hooked. The "bad boy" swagger was intoxicating, too. He'd gotten out of the military not long after that but decided on the police academy. She took a job at a publishing firm and quickly climbed the corporate ladder. Four years to the day after they first met, he proposed. Neither of them would describe the other as sentimental, but both got a little misty-eyed as he pulled the ring, a much larger ring than he could really afford, from his pocket and asked her to be his wife.

Right away, there had been a trillion things to get used to. Both of them had lived very different, separate lives as single people. Merging the two wasn't an easy task. They had not only come from two different worlds, hers of country clubs and polo matches and his of tenements and stickball, but they still existed in two different worlds. Her days consisted of power lunches, wooing clients at swanky evening events and out of town conferences. His spent his days walking a beat and then in anti-crime before eventually earning his gold shield as a homicide detective.

It was sometime after their first anniversary that she realized that the marriage wasn't exactly what she had imagined. She suspected that he was seeing someone else, but her pride wouldn't let her confront him. Over the next few years she guessed that there had been half a dozen women at least, maybe more, but their existences had never been confirmed. So, she'd been able to let it go. Life wasn't perfect, but really, who expected it to be. She had a handsome, successful, well-respected husband. They lived comfortably in a nice apartment. She tried to ignore the fact that he didn't touch her anymore or look in her eyes. Again, her pride wouldn't admit failure in anything, especially her marriage. That was until the day that she took out of town clients for an authentic New York City lunch. She'd taken them to a little place that she remembered finding with Jimmy some years previous. She wasn't sure why that little bistro came into her mind, but it did. It had been ages since she'd discussed her plans for the day with Jim, why should she have started that day?

It turns out that Jim had also made plans that day for lunch. At the same little spot that they both had enjoyed. But not with her. The woman was younger than Christine, probably in her late twenties, with stylishly coiffed brunette hair. She wore a police uniform, so at first glance they could have been innocent, but Christine knew better. She felt like the room was closing around her, like right before you pass out when your vision tunnels and all you hear is a loud whooshing sound. His eyes caught hers and he knew that she knew. She quickly regained her composure and directed her clients to a table in the opposite corner of the restaurant. Jim and the brunette finished a few minutes later and awkwardly parted. He lingered behind as though he wanted to explain, but every attempt he made to catch her eye was rebuffed. Finally, he left and she finished her client lunch, landing an extremely profitable account for the magazine.

That night he was waiting in the lobby of her office's building with flowers. She walked right by him without so much as a look acknowledging his presence. There wasn't enough time to get the locks changed, as he'd followed her directly home, so she had to put up with him for the rest of the evening. Oh joy. She closed and locked the bedroom door as soon as she got into the house. He had another thought coming if he thought he was sleeping anywhere near the bed. Or her. Hard to tell what kind of crap he'd picked up on the street and passed on to her already. She made a mental note to call her GYN in the morning for a complete check-up and tests.

He gave her time enough to take a shower and change into her pyjamas before he began knocking on the door and wheedling her to come out so he could explain. She was sure the explanation would be as lame as his dick had been of late. No matter how well she dressed him or instructed him on proper behavior in society, he always managed to look like a bull in a China shop. A handsome bull, mind you, but one very much out of place in the China shop. What made her cringe even more than the day's lunchtime extravaganza was the fact that she had to accept that her father had been right about Jimmy all along. Christine, "Christie" to everyone who'd met her since Jimmy entered the picture had nearly cut off all ties with her father the first night he met Jim, all dressed up in one of the outfits "Christie" had dolled him up in when they all met in the city for a Christmas production of the Nutcracker. Jim was as nervous as hell and had been sweating the meeting for over a week. The tux looked exquisite on him, but he fidgeted through the entire evening and even made a very inappropriate joke pertaining to a Nutcracker, and he wasn't referring to the one from the ballet.

As Jim was collecting the car from the valet, she came up between her parents and looped her arms around each of theirs. "Well," she whispered, "What do you think?" Her eyes must have been twinkling more brightly than the trees decorated in Rockefeller Center because her mother smiled politely and mumbled something about the two of them making a very striking couple to which her father added:

"But you know Christine, you just can't polish a turd."

Jim had sensed right away the newfound chill toward her father, and he assumed that it had something to do with him, but she never mentioned anything to him, and when the time came, she married him readily. But he never asked her what had happened that night. And eventually they had stopped discussing everything.

So now he was outside the locked bedroom door begging her to allow him to explain, as though there were words that could make anything better. If he'd been thinking with his head, the one three feet above his ass, that is, he'd have just given her time to cool off and maybe it would have blown over. But no, he had to push it, show up with flowers, follow her home, try to explain. There really was no explaining what Christie had seen this afternoon. But he didn't think about that until after he had started explaining.

She opened the doors so she was staring straight into his blue eyes with two icy ones of her own. "Well?" She spewed. "Are you going to tell me all about how she doesn't mean anything or you're just friends or some shit like that?"

He blinked a couple of times, completely in shock that she had even opened the door. He had run the words over in his head about 40 times and about that many more to Terry in the Squad that afternoon, but he hadn't expected her to throw them right back at him. He should have, though. She was too sharp for ridiculous lines like that.

"I, uh, I…" he stammered, trying to regain some sort of composure.

"Shut up, Jim." He closed his mouth and waited. She continued. "I'm going to ask you four questions and if I'm satisfied with the answer, this will be over."

He nodded, not even bothering to think what would happen if she wasn't satisfied with his answers.

"Who is she?"

"Anne Donnelley, she's on patrol out of the one-nine."

"How long has it been going on?"

"A month or two, six tops."

Christie inhaled but continued. "How many others have there been?"

"Chris, don't do this."

"How many, Jim?"

He scrubbed the heel of the hand he wasn't using to support himself against the doorjamb across his face and pulled his fingers through the mop of blonde hair on the top of his head. On the way back down, he wiped his mouth and pulled his lips in to an "o." She was still waiting when he opened his eyes. "Six, I guess."

Christie's gaze never faltered, and if she'd been shocked, she didn't betray her emotions at all. There was one question left, but Jim was pretty sure he'd already failed the test. Still, he waited.

"Did you love them? Do you love her?"

He didn't have the balls to mention that there were two questions there. Instead, he hung his head shamefully and backed away from the door. Christie advanced toward him.

"What about me, Jim? Do you love me?"

He backed even further into the living room. She took two or three more steps and stopped. "Did you ever love me?"

Finally, Jim found his voice. "Come on, Christie, don't do this. I'm sorry, ok?"

Anger boiled in her and before she knew what she had done, she reached forward and slapped him. Her hand stung as is made contact with the stubble on his left cheek. He blinked twice in stunned silence. He didn't have a chance to speak before her hand came toward him again. This time, though, he grabbed her wrist and pushed it down to her side.

"Stop it, Christie. I said I was sorry. What more do you want me to say?" His moment of meek guilt has passed.

She shook her head. "Nothing. What else is there to say?"

Jim rolled his eyes. "Come on. You can't honestly expect me to believe that you never knew."

She walked away from him and sat on the arm of the sofa. Then, as soon as her backside hit the fabric, she was up again, pacing the room. He had a point. She nodded silently.

"I'm sorry you found out like this, Christie. I really am." He walked up beside her and carefully placed his hand on her shoulder.

She stood from the couch and walked back into the bedroom. He followed her. Halfway into the room, she untied her robe and allowed it to slink onto the carpeted floor. In a long step, Jim covered the distance between them. His powerful, rough hands slid beneath the silk camisole of her pyjamas, cupping her breasts and squeezed the erect nipples between his first two fingers. She cried out a soft moan as she lifted her arms and turned into his torso. He ripped the slip over her head, almost tearing the strap in the process. His mouth covered hers, stifling the cries of both pleasure and betrayal that were rising in her throat. Tears streamed down her face as she groped for his trousers and pulled at the button and zipper. Finally, they gave way. She dove into his boxers and grabbed. This time his breath caught. He slid his hands around behind her back and down the outside of her pants, the form of her taut ass filling his palms. He lifted her off the ground and she snaked her long legs around his waist. He flung her back onto the bed and allowed his body to fall on top of her. As she pushed up against him, struggling to remove his shirt, he tugged down the waist of her leggings. She arched her back as the tips of his fingers traveled down her thighs and inside of her. She reached for his hips and pulled them toward her. His hands released her below but then grasped at her back and breasts as he entered her. Her eyes locked his piercing blue ones for the next few moments, but when it was done, she fell to her side away from him. He almost reached for her, but he didn't. Less than five minutes later, he was asleep. Christie heard his breathing fall into the rhythm of sleep before she allowed herself to cry.

The next morning, slamming drawers woke him.

"What are you doing?" he asked her as he watched her dumping the contents of drawers into her suitcases.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" she shot back at him.

"Don't do this." He knew that neither commands nor begging worked with her. He tried to be matter-of-fact.

"You don't get to tell me what to do." She didn't turn to look at him but continued throwing the things she had piled on the bed into bags.

"Christie," he began but stopped. Last night meant no more to her than it had to him. "Never mind." He turned his back and walked out the bedroom door. He collected his briefcase, gun and badge from the counter. Without another word he slammed the door behind him and was gone. He kept a change of clothes at the gym. He'd shower and shave there after his workout.

She worked on packing for several more hours, and it was the early afternoon before she was ready to leave. This was for real, and it was final. She wasn't coming back, so she had to make sure that everything was in order. She stacked the bags by the door and prepared to call her assistant to send a car. Clay had a place where she could stay. He'd mentioned it more than once. And even though he kind of made her skin crawl, she still needed somewhere to go for now. She reached for the phone, but the buzz of the intercom stopped her.

"Chris?" he friend Josie's voice cut into her thoughts. "Buzz me up, okay?"

She reached for the button and sat on the arm of the couch until the other woman rapped on the heavy door, pondering somewhere in the back of her mind why Josie wasn't at work, either. Christine opened it and the other woman breezed in, not even noticing the whirlwind that was the apartment.

"Where's the remote, hun?" Josie asked as she tried to work the TV. "How do you turn this thing on?"

Christine shook her head, trying to think, trying to figure out what was going on. She wasn't sure why Josie was even there. "I don't know, Jo. I don't know where Jimmy keeps it. What's going on?"

Josie clicked the TV to life, the scene at the bank occupying every channel. She walked over to where Christine was sitting again on the couch and took the spot beside her. The reporter was updating the viewers on the situation, now in some sort of resolution. Christine still shook her head.

"I don't understand," she whispered.

Josie took her hand. "It's Jimmy, Chris. He and Terry were first on the scene of a bank robbery. Several officers have been shot. They haven't confirmed which ones."

"Oh," she exhaled. "Do we have to sit here and wait to see who it is?" she asked, coolly, as she stood from the couch.

"Don't you want to know if he's okay?"

Christine motioned to the bags stacked by the door. "I don't think it matters anymore. Although if he's dead, I guess I don't have to move out."

"Christine, you don't mean that, even if you do hate him. You should wait and see what they say."

She agreed to watch a little bit longer, at least until the spokesman from One PP stood behind the podium and stated that although they could confirm that several officers had been shot and at least two had died, they were unable to release names pending notification of family.

The intercom buzzed again. She pressed the call button. This undoubtedly was the pending notification of family. "Yes?"

"Mrs. Dunbar?" the very masculine voice asked. "We're Captain Soarles and Father Murphy from the NYPD. Would it be possible for us to come up?"

"Is he dead?" she asked the disembodied voices below.

The other one took over, "We haven't been given that information, ma'am. We're here to take you to the hospital. Is there someone we can call for you?"

Christine released the button. "I'm not going," she told Josie. "Why should I go?"

Josie, already holding both women's coats and purses, stepped up beside her friend and grabbed her hand. "This is what you signed up for, Chris. You have to see this through, and then you can leave if that's what's best. But right now, you have to go and be his dutiful wife."

Christine accepted her things from Josie and straightened herself before opening the door. She turned to her friend. "Let's get this over with."


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Given all the BJ inspiration flowing today from our dear mom(s5thchild), I was duly inspired to finish this chapter and get it ready to post. I've borrowed from her backstory for Jim and hope that she not be too angry with me for doing that without asking. There is also minor reference to ashatanii's Exit Wounds (which is amazing, by the way).

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Chapter 2

Christie – she was Christie now – sat silently as the doctor explained what was happening inside Jimmy's head. She wasn't sure she understood everything, exactly, but there was a lot of emphasis put on the fact that there should be "no cognitive dysfunction." He stressed that they'd have to wait and see about everything else.

In the next few days, as Jimmy started to wake up, the picture started to clear up, if you could call it that. Scans showed that the bullet had entered the temporal lobe of Jim's brain, damaging the lateral geniculate nucleus and connections to the superior colliculus. When she looked it up later online, she found that it meant he had no vision in the lateral side of his left eye or the nasal portion of his right eye. It was the hemorrhage in the occipital lobe caused by the bullet's damage to blood vessels in that region as well as the force of his head striking the ground after he'd been shot that took care of the rest. The doctor didn't seem optimistic about the prospect of any sort of meaningful recovery, as CNS neurons don't often repair or regenerate themselves. His words of advice were to offer to introduce Christie to a social worker who would help them set up services for when Jim was ready to come home. Christie thought that given the choice, Jim might have taken the cognitive dysfunction. She couldn't imagine what they were going to do now.

He'd been in and out of consciousness, and they'd had to sedate him between examinations. When he was fully awake, he flailed around in the bed, dislodging lines and tubes and setting off alarms. She couldn't stand to see him like that. Frankly, she could barely stand to see him at all, even with him looking so unassuming and vulnerable. She knew he was still the same asshole underneath all the bandages.

Still, she couldn't bring herself just to leave him like this. She spent the first three days in the chair beside his bed as he slept and showed up at the hospital every day before and after work after that to check on him. Six days into it all, she walked into his room to find him sitting up in bed, a nurse strategically positioned on either side of him. He was eating, or they were feeding him or something like that. When he heard her heels on the tile, he stopped. His head shot up and swiveled toward the door, trying to force his eyes to tell him who had entered the room.

"Who's there?" he asked with more than a touch of paranoia in his voice.

"It's just me, Jimmy." She started to move toward him but stopped. "Is it okay if I come in?"

"Yeah." He turned to the nurses. "Can I have a minute with her?" he asked.

"The call button is wrapped around the bar on your left side, Detective Dunbar," one of them told him, placing his hand on it before she walked out of the room.

"Chris?" he asked, once the footsteps had stopped.

"I'm still here, Jim," she confirmed.

"You can come closer. I'm sure there's a chair or something." He listened as her shoes clipped across the hard floor. She stopped for a second before reaching him. Fabric rustled as she removed her coat and placed her purse on the aforementioned chair. A second later, her Chanel No. 5 filled his nostrils, and a soft, perfectly manicured hand found a place on top of his.

"You're awake. That's quite an improvement." She was surprised that she didn't have to make her voice sound pleased.

"The nurses said you've been here a lot."

"It's not a big deal," she quickly replied. "I'd like to think you'd have done the same for me." He was silent. She moved her hand a bit higher on his arm. "It's okay, Jim. You don't have to say anything."

He closed his eyes briefly and then opened them as he turned his face toward where he thought she must be. "You don't have to do this, Christie." He dropped his head. "I know you're leaving, and I understand. I'll figure out something. I can go to Indiana, stay with my mom or Rick maybe."

She stopped him. "Let's try not to worry about that right now, okay. Let's just focus on getting you well." God, she sounded so stereotypical.

He called her on it immediately. "That's bullshit Christie and you know it. What did they give you some kind of wounded policeman's wife brochure to read from or something?" Then, he started to get defensive, speaking words with a fire that was vintage Jim Dunbar. "I don't want you to hang around and watch me fumble around like some idiot. I'll hire someone before I let that happen." His face reddened as he spoke.

"Calm down, Jim. You're getting all worked up. Again, we don't have to decide anything right here or now." There was a harsh scrape as she dragged the chair across the floor to sit beside him. "Have you talked to anyone about when you'll be ready to come home or what we need to do?"

He shook his head. "I only talked to the doctor today, you know, got the whole picture, which is ironic."

"Jimmy," she whispered.

"Fuck, Christie." His voice started to quiver, "What the hell am I gonna do?" He paused for a second. "It would have been better for both of us if I hadn't made it. You could keep the apartment and I would have died a hero."

She stood from the chair. It scooted back across the floor with the momentum of her body moving against it. She grabbed his face with both of her hands and held it tightly.

"Don't you ever say that again. Do you hear me, Jim? That's not fair and it's not true, well, except for the hero part" she added, although the thought has also crossed her mind. But seeing him here, he still looked like Jim and sometimes he sounded like Jim, even like the Jim she used to love. She released his head. "We'll figure it out. That's what I came to tell you. I want to stay, for a while at least."

Although she had initially been resistant to see Jim at the hospital, and had gone mainly out of a sense of duty, the moment she walked into his room today, her heart broke seeing him awake and so scared. She'd spent the past week agonizing over whether or not she could actually do what she knew she had to. Until she had seen him just now and said the words the minute before, she hadn't been sure she could actually go through with it.

"Stop it, Chris. I don't want your pity." Whatever they had shared just moments ago was fading fast.

"I don't trust you, Jim, and although I'm angry with you, I don't hate you. But you still shouldn't have to go through this alone, and I'm not saying that out of pity. We used to be good together, and I'm not suggesting that we can ever get back to where we were, but I want to help you."

He paused for a few seconds to digest what she'd just said. "Why would you want to do that, after all I've done to hurt you? You said you'd hope that I'd be here for you, but if you'd done to me what I did to you, my ass would have left you."

"Well," Christie answered, "That's what I was in the process of doing when your ass got shot. So I had to rethink my plan slightly."

Jim smiled briefly but let it slide off his face. "I can't ask you to do this."

"You didn't ask; I offered." Jim's head started shaking again. "And I know you're no good at accepting help, but you don't have a choice here, Jim. You're going to need someone, and wouldn't it be a lot easier and more practical if that person was me?"

He considered this briefly. "Well, yeah, but…"

"No buts, Jim. It's settled." She glanced at her watch. Everyone of any consequence was gone for the day. "I'll talk with the social worker and the doctor in the morning to start arranging what I need to do at the house and get you set up for the proper classes and stuff."

He groped for her hand and finally found it. In just that act, she saw his composure start to crumble again. "I don't know if I can do this, Christine."

He never used her given name. "I'm not aware of anything you can't do," she tried.

"How about see? Maybe you could put that on your list," he spat as the wall shielding his emotions shot up again and he dropped her hand, crossing his arms and shoving his hands beneath his armpits in a full-on pout.

Shit. How had she fallen into that? "Sorry. That wasn't too smooth." She reached up and pulled his left hand out and back toward her. "You can do this. We can do this."

His right hand rubbed over his face, scrubbing at his eyes. "Oh, God, Chris. What am I gonna do?" he repeated from just a few minutes earlier, this time with greater desperation. "I can't live like this. I'm a fucking cop, for chrissake. And I'm fucking blind." Once he said the word, he completely unraveled in front of her eyes.

Christine kicked off her heels and climbed into the bed. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him toward her as his body shook in silent sobs. His head rested on hers as his hand found her face and hair, his fingers twisting in the dark strands. She let her own fingers work into his hair, avoiding the injured left side as she massaged. She couldn't tell him it would all be okay. She couldn't tell him the two of them would figure out their relationship. She couldn't even tell him that she loved him because she wasn't sure that she still did. All she could do was lay beside him and hold him as the reality of it all began to sink in.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

For the next three months, they existed in some sort of alternate reality. Christie imagined it might be kind of like life on a movie set. On top of the family leave she'd taken while he was in the hospital, Christie had used a month of vacation days she'd been saving for the trip to Spain Jim kept putting off for the perfect moment that never quite materialized. They spent almost every hour of every day together, counting steps and memorizing the layout of the apartment, going over everything again and again, breathing each other's air, drinking out of each other's glasses (well, Jim did anyway), wearing each other's clothes (that was mostly her, except this one mishap he had with her shirt). He had clung to her like a shadow for at least the first three weeks, like he was afraid the floor might drop out from under him if his hand wasn't on her arm at all times.

Her problem was, much like a star on location for months on end, she found herself amazingly attracted to her husband. Now, she knew this could present problems for both of them, but as far as she knew, he hadn't been in contact with Anne Donnelley or any of his other conquests since he'd left the hospital. She wasn't seeing anyone else. And how could she? She'd been too busy sleeping in Jim's bed, showering and shaving with Jim, making sure his clothes matched if he was going out, making sure the apartment floor was clean and nothing was out of place so he didn't break his neck walking through the living room.

Christie had this vision of Teresa Wright tying Gary Cooper's bowtie in _The Pride of the_ _Yankees_. But the whole mustache of yarn would be lost on Jim, and he didn't wear a bowtie. The one time he had worn a tie in the past few months, she'd tied the Half Windsor knot around her own neck and left it on the hanger for him to retrieve the next day. She needed a serious reality check before this got messy.

He _was_ getting better, though. He didn't really have a choice. She was back to work and he was spending his days at Lighthouse, figuring out the new gadgets that were making his life a little more interesting and a little less difficult. Either that, or he was working on his cane and navigation skills with his O&M instructors. While the Braille learning was slow going, he excelled at getting around. Most evenings, when she got home, he would insist on taking her to a new place he'd discovered how to get to during the day. He could cook well enough to keep himself from going hungry without burning down the house, too. They saw this as an accomplishment, and it was becoming obvious to both of them that he needed her less and less as each day passed.

She almost envied Jim. That sounded horrible and she hated herself for thinking it, but he was getting to do something about his situation. He was actively working on making things better for himself, whereas she still went to work every day at her same job, doing the same thing she'd been doing for the past four years. Jim got to talk to the others at Lighthouse, Gerry and Teddi the O&M instructors. The NYPD even offered to pay for weekly counseling sessions. She didn't know if he'd ever gone, but he seemed calmer, more resigned to what he had to do. Apparently, someone or something was helping his deal with his anger, with whatever he was feeling. But he didn't talk to her about any of it. She felt almost as if he was starting to move forward while she was stuck in their horrific past. The scary part was, she didn't know how to catch up to him, or if he wanted her to, or if she should even try.

One Friday at the beginning of the sixth month, she'd had a horrible day at work. The air conditioning had stopped blowing cold air, and as if on cue, everything that possibly could go wrong had. And as if on cue, she had become the fall guy for almost all of it. She was definitely going to be working all weekend, but she had to get away of the office for at least a few hours before she exploded. All she wanted to do was take a shower and collapse on the bed.

"Jimmy?" she called as she pushed the door open, dropping her case, its contents spilling out onto the floor, as she fumbled with her keys.

"Hey Christie," came his reply as he came into the front room from the guest room where he was no doubt working on some sort of Lighthouse homework. "What's all the racket?" he inquired as he came toward her.

She groped for the light switch on the wall as she struggled with her purse strap. "I just dropped everything on the floor and all my papers flew out of the bag. I'm trying to turn the light on so I can find them."

"Oh, I didn't think about the light. Is it dark out?" he asked.

"Not quite yet but I need it." She flipped it on. "That's better."

"Can I help?" he inquired, keeping his distance.

"It's okay, Jimmy. I've almost got it all picked up, I think." She didn't want to hurt his feelings, but she also didn't want him stepping on her mock-ups. "How was your day?" she tried to inject a lightness she did not feel into her voice.

"Um, better than yours I'm guessing. Can I get you a drink or something?"

She almost turned him down but stopped. "You know, a drink would be great. What do we have?"

"How about wine? I put a white in the fridge." He paused, thinking now that he might have gotten it wrong and it was red she preferred. "I thought you might like that," he almost whispered.

She blinked twice and almost fell over from her squatted position as she grabbed at the armchair to pull herself up. "Yeah. That's perfect." She couldn't remember the last time he'd done anything like that for her. She stacked the collected files in her case and closed the lid, placing it in its spot beside the door before she walked toward him. "So, what did you do today?"

He shrugged as he came toward the living room with her glass in his right hand and a beer for him in his left. He set the glass on the table and took a seat in one of the armchairs. "Just the usual. Do you have time to sit and have a drink with me?"

"Sure. What's on your mind?" She wasn't sure who this man was or what he'd done with her husband, but she wasn't ready to complain just yet.

"Nothing really. You've just been so busy lately. I thought you might just want to sit down for a minute."

"Thanks, Jim. That's exactly what I needed to do right now." His strong, manly hands hung slightly over the edge of the chair. She wanted to reach over and take one into hers so badly, but almost as if he had sensed this, he pulled the one closest to her back from the arm of the chair and sat it in his lap.

"I guess you don't want to talk about work, and I don't want to talk about screen readers and white canes, so we'll just sit here and drink," he offered.

"How very Upper East Side of us," she mused.

"Indeed." They sat there a little longer in silence before Jim spoke again. "Chris, I, um, I don't know how to say this to you," he started.

_Oh, God._ She thought. _What in the world is this all about?_

"I wanted to thank you for being here. I don't know what I would have done, what I would do, without you. So I wanted to tell you that I appreciate what you've done and what you've given up for me. I'm not good at recognizing when I need to say thanks, so that's something I'm trying to work on. Among other things," he added.

She took a sip of wine and swallowed. This wasn't like Jim Dunbar at all. Perhaps the bullet had hit something else up there. "It's not a big deal, Jim," was her answer.

And suddenly he was moving toward her, taking a place beside her on the couch. "That's just the thing, Chris," he said as he took her hand in his. "It's a really big deal." He took a deep breath and exhaled before he continued. "So I wanted to say thank you." He left it at that.

She shook her head, although she knew he couldn't see her. What he could do amazed her. He'd figured out the computer paraphernalia in about two days, and he moved in the apartment so proficiently that she sometimes forgot he couldn't see where he was going. On the evenings when he took her on walks, sure, she could watch where they were going, but most times, she found herself forgetting to pay attention and just following him. He always got them back home. She cringed to think how little of this would have been possible if he had gone to stay with his mother in Indiana. She doubted there were any comparable resources anywhere near where their town.

"It's okay, Jim," affirmed Christie. "You needed someone, and I could help." She paused for a second. "That's all," she tried to convince herself.

He started to say something and then stopped. He'd told her how he felt and what he'd somehow find the courage to say. There was no need to belabor the point. And why would she start believing anything he said to her anyway? That was his problem and he knew it. Past actions being such a potent predictor of future deeds, he had to make her see that things were different, that he was trying to be different. And while saying the words to her was a beginning, he had a long way to go in his quest to win back her trust. He knew he needed her, but it was more than that. At first, it struck him as a weird version of Stockholm syndrome; she was the only person he'd had meaningful contact with for six months. But he knew this feeling. He'd felt it all those years before when he fell in love with her the first time.

"I'm gonna take a bath and try to get some sleep." Jim realized he'd been quiet for a long time as Christie's words broke the silence in the room and into his head. "I'm going in tomorrow morning. We'll never make our October deadline if I don't put it to bed by Monday evening, and right now the whole issue is a hot mess." She stood and kissed him on the forehead as she passed by on her way to the kitchen. "Thanks for the drink. I'll put the glass in the sink."

Jim listened to her go and waited for the water to start running before he picked up the small rubber ball and bounced it off of the wall. He sat in the living room until the noises outside the open window changed from those of night to the noises of late night. He knew the difference now. He checked the time on the face of his wristwatch. Three fifteen, and he still wasn't tired. Trying to sleep at this point wouldn't work, and more than likely, he'd wake up Christie in the process. The elliptical in the spare room would burn off some of his restless energy, but the machine was loud. Maybe a walk around the block would do the trick. He grabbed the white cane and headed for the door, thinking he'd certainly be back before she woke up or wondered where he was.

The clock beside her was dark. That explained the sudden rise in temperature in the bedroom. It was apparently a full-fledged blackout. No doubt, all the air conditioners in their corner of the city had overloaded the grid. She rolled over in the bed. Jim's side was cool, untouched. He hadn't been to bed. She rummaged around in the drawer of the bedside table for the flashlight that now found its permanent home on her side. When she retrieved it, she prayed silently that the battery still had some juice. Making sure the flashlights worked was Jimmy's job. She guessed it was her job now. She flipped the switch, and the torch lit the room. She didn't even bother to slip on a t-shirt as she walked out of the bedroom. It was so hot. She expected to find Jim asleep on the couch in front of the TV or zonked out in the guest room. He did that sometimes when he didn't want to disturb her. As she checked the first place and then the next, her heart rate quickened. He wasn't in the apartment.

"Jimmy!" she called. There was no answer. She ran back into the bedroom and grabbed her wristwatch. It was nearly 4 am. Where could he have gone at 4 am? She stuffed her feet in an old pair of running shoes from the bottom of her closet and skidded toward the front door, grabbing her keys from their peg as she slid into the hallway. The door had been closed and locked and Jim's keys were gone. She guessed that meant he had left willingly and under his own power, but she still worried. She pushed the button for the elevator but recalled that the electricity was out. Quickly, she jogged the six flights to the street level, the flashlight illuminating her path. When she burst onto the deserted sidewalk, she glanced up and down the street trying to decide which direction to try first. Then she remembered the park under the bridge. He'd taken her there several times on their walks, and they'd even gone there a few times together before the shooting. She started to jog in that direction, the breeze coming off the river cooling the semi-darkened city chilled her a bit, and she realized that in her rush she hadn't put on any more clothing than she'd worn to bed. She was now running down her street in an old pair of Jim's boxers and a wife-beater. How classic. When she reached the far end of the park, she started scouting out the benches to see if any was occupied. As she did so, she realized she hadn't thought of glasses or contact lenses in her rush. It was all going to be a big blurry mess until she got closer. As the biggest blondest lump became her husband, she slowed her pace as she approached him.

"Jimmy?" she asked, almost in a whisper. She didn't want to startle him. "What are you doing out here?"

She sounded out of breath. He'd scared her. "Nothing," he answered. "Sorry," he added a second later. "I couldn't sleep and didn't want to wake you. I thought I'd be back before you realized I was gone. What time is it, anyway?" His fingers went immediately to his watch.

"Not quite four," she confirmed to him as she sat beside him on the bench. "The power went out, and it got hot in the bedroom. I guess that's what woke me up. I reached over and you were gone. And then I couldn't find you."

"I didn't mean to worry you, Christie. I just needed some air. I had the window open, but it just wasn't enough. I didn't think you'd wake up."

She laid her head on his shoulder and let his arm snake around her back. "It's okay. I just got a little jumpy."

"So jumpy that you ran out here after me practically naked?"

Christie blushed. "Yeah, well, I wasn't thinking about my clothes at the time." She shivered beside him.

"Are you cold?" Her body was clammy with a light film of sweat, partly from fear and partly from running.

"Just a little, but it's fine."

"Wanna go back in?"

"No. This is good." She let him hold her. "What were you thinking about out here?"

"Just stuff."

"Anything important?"

"Well," he started cautiously. "It's our Anniversary."

"What?"

"It's after midnight, so it's the 14th, right?" He anticipated her automatic nod. "That's five years."

She shook her head to clear it. "Oh, God. It is. I completely forgot."

"Welcome to the club," he grinned. "I don't feel so bad now."

She punched his ribs playfully. "Shut up."

"I feel like we should do something," he started.

"Did you have a plan in mind?" she wondered aloud.

"Uh, not really, but I have the rest of the day to come up with something." He had an idea, but it would take him a little effort to put it into play.

"Okay, well, you'd better try to sleep at least a little. Don't you think?"

He nodded but didn't move. "I guess I should try."

She picked her head up off of his shoulder and stood from the bench. He held out his hand to her and she took it in hers. He let her guide him back to the darkened building and they climbed the stairs back to the apartment. He led her to the bedroom and opened the windows as she climbed back onto the bed.

"You're coming in with me, aren't you?" she was almost embarrassed to ask. She wanted him beside her. She wanted his hands on her body. She watched as he pulled off his shirt, causing her to inhale sharply at the sight of his defined chest and abdomen highlighted in the moonlight. He was so gorgeous.

"What?" he asked as he walked toward her.

"Nothing," she covered quickly as she pushed the covers out of their way. He started around the bed to his side but she grabbed his hand and placed it on her own bare chest. He cocked his head to one side and took a deep breath in. He could smell her desire and found that his own matched it. He moved forward onto the bed with her as their bodies touched, moving together in the balmy night air.

The next morning, they picked right up where they'd left off just a few hours before. Then she stayed in bed with him for a half hour longer than she had planned. When she finally got up, he followed her into the cool shower. It was on the tip of his tongue to protest her leaving, but he knew that not even another go-round in the shower would be enough to convince her shrug off her work if she really needed to be there. She switched off the faucet. He toweled off quickly and pulled on some boxers from the top drawer. She exited the bathroom behind him, trailing her fingers across his shoulders as she opened the drawer to his right.

"You want coffee?" he asked as he shivered slightly under the touch.

"That would be nice," she replied. She glanced over at the clock on her nightstand. It was blinking. The power must have come back on while they were asleep or otherwise occupied.

Jim nodded and left for the kitchen as she collected her things to get dressed. Sometimes he felt like he was taking advantage of her when nights and mornings like that happened. They still hadn't worked out the trust issues in their marriage, and it was almost like the Stockholm syndrome thing going on again. But it wasn't too hard to convince himself that he hadn't done anything wrong. It wasn't like she'd been complaining; in fact, he knew exactly what the sounds she'd made and the words she'd said meant. She'd wanted it as much as he had. She _was_ still the picture in his head.

As Christie watched him leave the bedroom to make breakfast, she fanned herself. The bedroom windows were still open, allowing the warm air to stream in and over her. She told herself that's all it was. But she knew the truth, and she also knew that before long, she wouldn't be able to deny her feelings for Jim. This thing, whatever it was they had going on now was all well and good, but eventually, their little movie would wrap. And they'd trickle back into the real world. Christie had no idea what that would happen then.


End file.
